Spence here: The many ruins and waters trip this past weekend was only three days long, but felt like a two week vacation. When we returned to Portland, I was surprised to recall how much we explored, however, it never felt hectic or rushed. We started out with a plan to go east and find a place to catch the lunar eclipse, which could be viewed Saturday morning, early. From there we had a jumping off point, but no set road. Billy had never been to Maupin, Oregon, so all the more reason to go, where the Deschutes River runs cold through pleasing rounded brown hills. High desert smells, plants, coyotes and friendly fishing people abound there and oddly enough, a nice old preserved cow horn, which came to be in our possession. The towering canyon walls were sadly too vertical for our needed view of the moon, come morning, and so we snacked-up and proceeded to a new favorite camp spot of mine on the John Day River called Cottonwood Canyon.
Perpetually chasing waterfalls, we detoured to White River Falls State Park, driving by the Warm Springs Indian Reservation traditional fishing platforms. A large ring-necked pheasant greeted us at the entrance. A steep trail took us down the canyon slopes towards a defunct power station (in operation from approximately 1910 to 1960). It set up a great photo extravaganza, as I took the whole roll of 35 mm film, which I was saving for the rest of the trip. Worth it. The canyon stretched on in the sun and dramatic dark cloud play and we savored the exploration like little kids. Behind every rock and pipe was a new plant, flower, photo op and smooth gray sand ripple. The White River eventually flows into the Deschutes River. We probably could walk the whole way, we pondered.
Losing time, we finally headed out to Cottonwood Campground. It was a bit busy and very windy when we arrived. I argued with the wind setting up the tent, but once staked out, proved to be an excellent palace for napping and gin rummy. We rose at 5:00 a.m., made a small fire and watched the Earth’s shadow move across the moon, with only a few birds and spirits watching. The rest of the campers had decided to stay in bed! While watching stars fade and tracing the hillside contours in my journal, I realized I am still wrapped up in the Western entanglements of hope and fear. What to do but realize and try to breathe.
A little while later we took a chilly stroll towards the John Day’s banks and I fished for a spell. I can’t recall ever being so relaxed in the past month as right by that river in those moments. I only caught snags, lost my favorite lure, and had a knot or two fail me, but the grin stayed on my face and a weathered elk bone accompanied Billy and I back to the Jeep in my jacket hood. Billy and I were engaged around this time last year during a lunar eclipse. Had it been a year already?!
We decided to head back along a rural route, taking Monkland Lane. Billy had spied an old church on the way out and we stopped to snoop. More ruin porn. I guest-i-mated this church was built around 1880. It still had a few recognizable pieces of hardware, which I was tempted to nab. A creepy, boarded-up, dilapidated convent-state hospital-looking building over saw the small town, but there were houses near, so we decided to skip getting close to that.
We had excellent talks in the afternoon, chasing sun patches and sitting around the fire at Bear Creek Campground, in the Mt. Hood National Forest. It was good to prioritize and give volition to the original leanings and plans about coming to Portland. A unique time to be up that high without snow, we took the chance to hike around Trillium Lake, another popular fishing haven. The fish were jumping, a Bald Eagle watched us close and the skunk cabbage was coming to life. Spur of the moment soon after, we drove up to Timberline Lodge on Mt. Hood. I had never been up, and the history and views were imaginative. I can understand why there are so many groups formed in the area who talk about and research the Sasquatch. What a habitat. The snow is up there year-round, but this year, we could tell from exposed shale and dry patches, it is going to be a very hot summer.
You don’t run down the present, pursue it with baited hooks and nets. You wait for it, empty-handed, and you are filled.
– Annie Dillard
Billy here. The three tribes of the Warms Springs Reservation are the Wasco, the Walla Walla and the Pauite. The Wasco were fishers who lived along the Columbia River and spoke Chinookan.The Chinookan word for the Columbia River is Wimahl. The Walla Walla, known today as the Warm Springs tribe, spoke sahaptin and lived along the tributaries of the Columbia, frequently interacting with the Wasco and moving from summer to winter villages. The sahaptin word for the Columbia is Nch’i-Wàna, which, like the Chinookan name, means essentially big river.The Paiute spoke a form of Shoshonean and lived in the high plains of southeast Oregon. They migrated further for game animals as they were not primarily fishers.
The Columbia River is the jugular vein of the Pacific Northwest. It is the fourth largest river by volume in all of North America, spanning two thousand kilometers from its headwaters in British Columbia . Under tribal care, the historic salmon and steelhead annual numbers were estimated to run up to 16 million fish. The current annual run is less than one million fish. Thirteen salmonids have made the threatened and endangered species lists. Now over 450 dams are in the Columbia River Basin and a nuclear power plant still operates on the river.
Only in the last 200 years has tribal life in the Columbia Basin been completely disrupted by the coming of European settlers. In 1855, white dude Joel Palmer negotiated treaties in order to clear the people from the land for Oregon territories. The tribes relinquished around ten million acres of land with the promise that they would still be able to fish, hunt and harvest the meager lands of the reservation. Because of forced assimilation and ecological degradation by settler agriculture, dams and other practices, their traditional ways of life were no longer as workable as they once were. In 1957, the U.S. Army Corp of Engineers finished building the Dalles Dam, inundating and completely destroying the ancient fishing village and inter-tribal trade center at Celilo Falls that had existed for perhaps 15,000 years. I am finding myself very emotional over learning this fact. Maybe because on some level I knew already before reading the Wikipedia article on Celilo Falls that “Celilo was the oldest continuously inhabited community on the North American continent.”
And maybe I knew the story already because it had happened a thousand times to every tribe on the continent over the same decades that saw the dropping of the atomic bomb, the first drilling of oil, and the witch hunts of the “Red Scare” and the “Lavender Scare”. What have we lost? And is the price of modern convenience and security worth the destruction it has caused?